Replay (29 page)

Alberto looked at him questioningly.

“It’s your turn to trust me,” Andrew said.

* * *

After dropping Alberto at the bar, Andrew followed his directions to Marisa’s place in the Palermo Viejo neighborhood. He climbed the stairs to the third story of the small building on Calle Malabia. Marisa looked taken aback to see him when she opened the door, dressed only in a towel.

“What are
you
doing here? I was expecting a girlfriend.”

“Call her and cancel, then get dressed. Or the other way around if you prefer.”

“Just because we slept together once doesn’t mean you can order me around.”

“It’s got nothing to do with that.”

“I’ll tell my friend it’s off. We can stay here if you like,” Marisa said, dropping her towel. She looked even sexier than Andrew remembered. He knelt to pick up the towel and wound it around her shoulders.

“Sometimes the second time’s not as good as the first. Go get dressed. We’ve got important things to do.”

She stalked away, slamming the bathroom door behind her.

Andrew looked around Marisa’s studio apartment. The living room doubled as a bedroom. The bed was unmade, but the rumpled white sheets looked clean and inviting. Books were in precarious piles against one wall, and brightly colored cushions were scattered around a low table in the middle of the room. Shelves groaned under the weight of more books on another wall, between two windows that let the light flood in. The place was as messy and attractive as the woman who lived in it.

Marisa reappeared wearing a pair of jeans that were ripped at the knee and a tank top that hugged her breasts revealingly.

“Where are we going?” she demanded, hunting for her keys.

“To see your aunt.”

Marisa stopped short.

“Why didn’t you say so?” she grumbled.

She went and pulled a pair of black corduroy pants and an old T-shirt out of a pile of clothes on the floor. She slipped off her jeans, yanked her top over her head and got changed in front of Andrew.

* * *

Andrew drove. Marisa lit a cigarette and opened the window.

“What do you want from Luisa?”

“I need to ask her a question to wind up my investigation. And I also want to ask her to stop treating me like an idiot.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because she and your uncle still see each other, despite their claims to the contrary.”

“I find that hard to believe. What business it is of yours, anyway?”

“You’ll understand later.”

* * *

Luisa didn’t seem surprised when she opened the door and found Andrew and her niece standing there. She showed them into the living room.

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

“Tell me everything you really know about Major Ortiz.”

“I’ve already told you, I don’t know much about him. Before I met you, he was just one of many photos in my album.”

“Can I see your album again, please? Not the one with the photos of the torturers—the one with the pictures of their victims.”

“Of course.”

Luisa opened the sideboard drawer and handed Andrew the album. He flicked through every last page.

“Don’t you have any photos of Isabel and Rafael Cruz?” he asked Luisa, staring at her intently.

“Sorry, but those names don’t mean anything to me. I don’t have photos of every single one of the thirty thousand people who were disappeared—only the five hundred or so whose children were stolen.”

“They had a daughter called María Luz. She was two when her parents were killed. Have you overlooked her story, then?”

“You don’t intimidate me, Mr. Stilman, nor does your impertinence. You know very little about the work we’ve accomplished. Since we began our battle to expose the truth, we’ve only managed to establish the true identities of ten percent of the stolen children. We still have a long way to go. Considering my age, I’ll probably never see us attain our goal. Why are you so interested in this little girl’s fate?”

“Major Ortiz adopted her. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“What do you mean, ‘coincidence’?”

“There was a photo of María Luz in the file that put us on Ortiz’s trail, without any explanation of the connection between the two.”

“It would seem your informer, whoever he is, wanted to steer you in a certain direction.”

“He . . . or she?”

“I’m tired, Marisa. You need to take your friend home; it’s time for my siesta.”

Marisa gestured to Andrew to get up. As she kissed her aunt goodbye, she murmured into her ear that she was sorry.

“Don’t be,” Luisa whispered back. “He’s not bad looking, and life’s too short.”

On their way down the front steps, Andrew asked Marisa to wait in the courtyard for a moment; he’d left his pen on the dining room table.

Luisa frowned when she saw him return.

“Have you forgotten something, Mr. Stilman?”

“Please call me Andrew. I’d be delighted if you would. I just had one last thing to say before I let you get your rest: I’m glad you and Alberto have made up.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Considering your age you should be past seeing men in secret. Don’t you agree?”

Luisa didn’t reply.

“The jacket hanging up in your lobby is the one Alberto was wearing when I met him in the bar. Have a nice siesta, Luisa. You don’t mind me calling you Luisa, do you?”

* * *

“What on earth were you doing?” Marisa asked when Andrew joined her in the courtyard.

“I did explain before we left your place, but you don’t pay any attention to what I say. Are you working tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Tell your boss you won’t be able to. Just say you’re ill. One more lie won’t make any difference.”

“And why wouldn’t I be going to work?”

“I promised you yesterday that we’d finish what we’d started together, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do. Can you tell me where there’s a gas station? I need to fill up the car.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“San Andrés de Giles.”

* * *

They reached the edge of the village in two hours’ time. Andrew pulled over to ask a passerby where the police station was, then set off in the direction he’d been given.

“Why are we going to the cops?” Marisa inquired.

“You aren’t. Just stay in the car and wait for me.”

Andrew walked in and asked if he could speak to a detective. The officer at the front desk replied that the only detective had already gone home. Andrew grabbed a notepad from the counter and scribbled down his cell phone number and hotel address.

“Last night I drove past the scene of an accident that claimed a life, over near Gahan. I drove two injured people to the hospital. I don’t have much else to say, but if you need a statement, here’s how to get in touch with me.”

“I know about it,” the officer said, getting up from his chair. “The doctor we spoke to said you’d left without leaving your contact details.”

“I waited in the car park for quite some time, but I had to get to an important meeting in Buenos Aires, so I decided I’d come back as soon as I could. And I have, as you can see.”

The officer offered to take his statement which he could give to the detective. He sat down at a typewriter and tapped out what Andrew had to say. Nine lines and not a word more. Andrew signed the piece of paper, humbly accepted the officer’s congratulations for saving two lives, and went back out to the car.

“Would you mind telling me what you’ve been doing in the police station all this time?” Marisa asked.

“I’ve removed one of Ortiz’s pieces from the chessboard. I’ll explain later. Right now we need to get over to the hospital as fast as possible.”

* * *

“How are the accident victims that were brought in last night doing?” Andrew asked. “We wanted to check in on them before we head back to Buenos Aires.”

“You’ve come back!” said the doctor, seeing Marisa with Andrew in the lobby. “We couldn’t find you last night, so I thought you must be guilty of something and had run off.”

“We couldn’t wait, and you didn’t give us a sense of when they’d be out of surgery,” Andrew said.

“How could I have known?”

“That’s what we thought, and we weren’t about to spend the night in the car park. We’ve just been to the police station and given a statement.”

“Whom did you speak to?”

“An Officer Guartez. Nice guy with a deep voice and big glasses.”

The doctor nodded. The description matched Guartez, one of only three policemen in the village.

“They were lucky—very lucky—that you drove past at the right time. The patient with the worst injuries was transferred to the capital early this morning. We’re a very small hospital and not equipped to deal with such serious cases. Mr. Ortega only had a deep wound, broken bones and muscle laceration. We’ve operated on him. He’s resting in a room down the hall. Would you like to see him?”

“I don’t want to tire him out unnecessarily,” Andrew answered.

“I’m sure he’ll be delighted to have the chance to thank his rescuers. I’ve got to go and do my rounds. You can find your own way: it’s just down there at the end of the corridor. But don’t stay too long—he does need to get his strength back.”

The doctor said goodbye and informed the nurse on duty that they could go and see the patient.

When they got to the room, Andrew drew the curtain closed around Ortiz’s bed, even though the neighboring bed was empty.

Ortiz was asleep. Marisa shook his shoulder.

“You again!” he said, opening his eyes.

“How are you feeling?” Andrew asked.

“Better since they gave me some painkillers. What do you want from me now?”

“To give you a second chance.”

“And what second chance might that be?”

“You’ve been admitted under the name of Ortega, if I’m not mistaken.”

“That’s the name on my papers,” the ex-major replied, looking down.

“You could leave here under the same name and return home as normal.”

“Until you publish your article?”

“I’d like to make a deal with you.”

“I’m listening.”

“Answer my questions honestly, and I’ll just tell Major Ortiz’s story without revealing his new identity.”

“What proof do I have that you’ll keep your promise?”

“I can only offer you my word.”

Ortiz stared at Andrew for a long time.

“What about her? Will she be capable of holding her tongue?”

“Yes. As capable as she was of holding a gun to your head last night. I don’t think she wants me to expose you. Her future depends on it, doesn’t it?”

Ortiz said nothing, his face fraught with tension. His gaze came to rest on the IV bag sending fluid into his veins.

“All right, then,” he whispered.

“What were the circumstances in which you adopted María Luz?”

The question hit a nerve. Ortiz turned to Andrew and didn’t take his eyes off him again.

“When I was discharged, Febres wanted to make sure I wouldn’t talk. He took me to a secret orphanage. Most of the children were babies only a few weeks old. He ordered me to choose one, explaining it’d be the best way for me to regain a sense of reality. He told me that I, too, had helped save this innocent soul by flying the plane from which her parents had been thrown into the sea.”

“And had you flown it?”

“I had no idea. No more than he did. I wasn’t the only one piloting those flights, as you can imagine. But it was a possibility. I was a newlywed back then. María Luz was the oldest baby there. I told myself it would be easier having a two-year-old.”

“But she was a stolen child!” Marisa protested. “And your wife agreed to take part in this monstrous act?”

“My wife knew nothing about it. Right up to her death, she believed what I’d told her: that María Luz was the child of soldiers killed by the Montoneros, and that it was our duty to help her. Febres gave us a birth certificate in her name. I explained to my wife that it’d be easier for María Luz to live her life to the fullest if she knew nothing about the tragedy which left her an innocent victim. We loved her as if we’d given birth to her ourselves. María Luz was twelve when my wife died, and she cried for her like any girl who had just lost her mother. I brought her up on my own. I worked like a maniac so I could pay for her to study languages and arts at the university. I gave her everything she wanted.”

“I can’t listen to this,” Marisa objected, jumping up.

Andrew shot her a furious look and she sat down again, straddling her chair with her back to Ortiz.

“Does María Luz still live in Dumesnil?” Andrew asked.

“No, she left a long time ago. The Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo found her when she was twenty. She used to spend her weekends in Buenos Aires. She was a political activist and she never missed an opportunity to go to demonstrations for what she called ‘social progress,’ all the budding trade unionists she’d met at college had put those ideas into her head. Quite the opposite of the education we’d given her.”

“Yet in line with her real parents’ ideals,” Marisa interrupted. “It wasn’t your blood flowing through her veins. It seems the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“So you think leftism is hereditary? Perhaps. Plenty of other defects are passed on that way,” Ortiz jeered.

“I don’t know about ‘leftism,’ as you call it so contemptuously. But humanity—very likely!”

Ortiz turned to Andrew.

“If she interrupts one more time, I won’t tell you another thing.”

At that, Marisa exited the curtain, giving Major Ortiz the finger as she went.

“The Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo spotted María Luz during one of the many demonstrations she went on. It took them several months to actually approach her. When my daughter discovered the truth, she asked to change her name. She left the house the same day, without saying a word, without even looking at me.”

“Do you know where she went?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Did you try to find her?”

“I went to Buenos Aires whenever there was a march. I would walk up and down, scouring the parade of people in the hope of catching a glimpse of her. I did, once. I went up to her and begged her to spare me a moment so we could talk. She refused. All I could see in her eyes was hatred. I was scared she’d denounce me, but she didn’t. After she got her degree, she left the country, and I never heard anything about her again. You can write your article, Mr. Stilman, but I hope you’ll keep your word. I’m not asking that for myself, but for my other daughter. She only knows that her sister was adopted.”